Reunion
by damnitjillkatherine
Summary: One year later, someone shows up with a message for Sands.


Reunion

Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine.

Rating: PG-13. Typical foul language.

Summary: One year later, someone shows up with a message for Sands.

* * *

"¡Señor!" Sands froze; he knew that voice. He whipped around to face the direction from which it came. "¿Quiere más chicle?" Shit. It was the gum kid. How the hell did he get into the bar? He hadn't seen – heard from – him since Día de los Muertos. One year ago today. And he sounded thrilled to have found Sands.

"What do you want, kid?" he sighed resignedly.

"Hay alguien que te quiere ver," the boy replied. Sands snorted. There was someone he'd like to see, too; anyone. He tried to wave the kid away, but he persisted. "Me dijo que te preguntar, 'Are you still standing?'"

Sands' hand stopped mid-wave. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck a duck. That could most definitely be only one person. Fuck. Sands stared hard at his harasser. Forget the whole you-need-eyes-to-stare idea; he was staring.

"Why."

"¡Yo no sé!" He took the American by the hand and led him out of the cantina into the street. "¡Vamos!" He pulled Sands down the sidewalk as fast as the blind man would let him. Soon they were at the entrance to another small bar. The boy gently pushed Sands through the doorway and then disappeared. Sands heard the faint clink of spurs as someone turned on their barstool to look at the man who had just walked in. There was no one else in the bar. Sands' memory flashed him a picture to go with those spurs.

"El, nice to see you again," he began amiably. "Would you mind telling me why the hell I'm here? And, while you're at it, where 'here' is, because I have no fucking clue where I am and that, mi amigo, is an unhappy feeling. For everyone." He leveled a gun at the place where the sound of breathing told him the mariachi's head should be.

"You are in the Tarazco Dos, about a quarter of a mile south of where the boy found you," was the calm reply. Sands kept his gun trained on the voice.

"How the fuck do you know where the kid found me?"

"I knew where you would be," El replied simply. Sands was not happy.

"And how did you know _that_? What're you doing, you crazy fucker, stalking me? This is insane." He was pissed now. So pissed, in fact, that, during his tirade, he hadn't heard the mariachi stand up and close the distance between them. He flinched violently when the other man took hold of his wrist.

"I am not going to hurt you."

"Like hell you're not. Let go of me," Sands snarled.

"I just want to talk to you. I need your help." That got his attention. He jerked his arm of the Mexican's grip and relaxed minutely, cocking an eyebrow.

"You, El famous Mariachi, are asking a crazy, blind, ex-CIA agent for help? You _must_ be desperate." He stalked towards the barstools, still miffed. "Buy me a drink and maybe I'll listen to you." El followed him to the bar and started clinking glasses around. He filled one and set it on the counter in front of Sands.

"Tequila with lime, on the house."

"And what does the bartender have to say about that?" Sands asked, picking up his drink.

"What I just said. _I _am the bartender." Sands choked slightly on his drink.

"Come again? You're a _bartender_?"

"Sí. I own part of the place. About eight months ago, Lorenzo and Fideo and I got back together. We decided to open this place with the money left from the coup." He watched the former agent's face tighten almost imperceptibly at the mention of the event. "A month ago, I heard that you were in town. I decided to find out more and to keep an eye on you. Just in case." Sands snorted.

"I don't know whether to be flattered or offended."

"It was a compliment. I know you are still dangerous. If someone tells a story about El Mariachi, their next one is about El Pistolero Ciego."

"Jealous?" Sands snarked around the cigarette he was lighting. El made an incredulous scoffing sound. "Is that what they're calling me? El Pistolero Ciego?" he asked, blowing smoke rings into the air.

"I have heard it a few times."

"Guess I'm part of the family now; I have a feeling I won't get along with mamá real well. At least I have a _real_ name, though. Can't very well call me 'El'; we'd have too much confusion," he said, grinning maniacally.

"I suppose you are right," the mariachi replied thoughtfully. He leaned over the bar with the bottle of tequila to refill Sands' glass. The blind man tossed back the alcohol in one go and thunked the glass back down on the bar.

"So, El Mariachi-turned-Bartender needs my help. What for?" Suddenly El was very serious.

"The day we met, a year ago, you said that I had nothing to live for." Sands snickered at the memory. "At the time, I believed you were right. But after el Día de los Muertos, I realized that I did have something to live for; Mexico. Do not make that face, I am serious. My motherland is very important to me. And like it not you seem to be a part of her now, no matter how badly you get along."

"Alright, alright, I get it. Huzzah for Mexico and mariachi justice. What does this have to do with me? And you opening a bar?"

"You did not let me finish. The cartels are not gone. There is always someone higher up. There was someone above Barillo and there will be someone above him. This is a major drug city; deals happen here every day, every hour. I decided to open a bar here for two reasons; to be close to the cartels and to get inside their operations."

"Whoa, wait just a cotton-pickin' minute here. You mean that they use this bar, _your_ bar, as a drug hub?" The other man nodded. "What. The fuck. I thought the entire _reason_ you got into the whole guitar-toting vigilante business was to _stop_ all of this. And now you're _in_ on it?"

"Will you let me _finish_? The reason that I am in on it is so that I can gather enough information to stop it successfully. The 'vigilante business' does not work well for efficiently taking out entire operations at once. I am undercover, as you say." Sands sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fine. So, what have you got so far and how are you going to use it?" Temporary silence.

"Well, that is where you come in." Sands raised his eyebrows into a pained expression. "I have never been much of a planner. Buscemi was always berating me for not thinking and letting things get out of hand. I need someone who can take what I have found out and turn into sensible information and a good plan. Fideo is too drunk and Lorenzo is too young. I know you are good at this sort of thing. I would like you to help me." Sands pondered the request in silence.

"That sounded like a pretty big slice of humble pie there, pal. Do I get to shoot anyone?"

"If you wish, once things get underway," replied El, sounding surprised.

"So far so good. What's the catch?" El fidgeted.

"Well… Lorenzo and Fideo and I perform occasionally, when there is a good crowd. We need another man to work the bar while we play."

"You want a crazy, blind ex-CIA agent serving alcohol to your paying patrons? I might poison someone. Or worse, give them the wrong drink." El chuckled warmly.

"The bottles are easy to recognize by touch, and you can rearrange them however you like."

"Jesus Christ, you really do need help. Alright. I guess I can stay a while. That is, if I get paid." El nodded.

"We all split the profits from the bar. If someone sees fit to tip you, you keep it. We own the place, so there is no rent. There is an apartment over the bar."

"And the cartel money?" Sands asked innocently.

"The cartel money all goes straight to charity," was the stern reply. "I refuse to use it for myself, or anyone else working here.

"Okay, okay!" Sands held up his hands. "Just wondering. Can I see the upstairs?" El was silent for a moment. "Oh you know what I mean," Sands snapped impatiently. El shrugged and stood up. Unsure as to how to proceed, he started slowly towards the door in the back. Sands followed him unerringly, keying in on the sound of the other man's boot steps and the jingling of pants and spurs.

"Stairs," El warned as they reached the first step. Sands muttered a 'thanks' and climbed them effortlessly, holding on to the banister. When they reached the top, El explained the layout.

"There is a long hallway. To your left is the door to a bathroom." Suddenly there was a loud thump and a crash to their right.

"The hell…?"

"To your right is the door to Lorenzo and Fideo's room. If you value your life, do not go in there when the door is closed." Sands nodded fervently and continued quickly down the hall, through a door. "This is the largest room. There is a bathroom attached, to your left. Right in front of you is the one bed."

"Peachy," Sands replied, flopping down on the piece of furniture and spreading out; the bed was humongous. He sighed deeply, relaxing for what felt like the first time in years, feeling as if his very bones were melting into the soft mattress. "Dare I ask whose room this is?"

"Well, it has been mine," said El carefully, "but if you are staying, I guess it is now also yours." Sands sat bolt upright.

"You have _got_ to be shitting me. That goddamn hallway is a quarter of a fucking mile long and you're telling me there are only _two_ bedrooms off of it?"

"That is correct."

"I swear to God if you're lying to me I will shoot you in the balls."

"Check all you wish for more doors. There are none." Sands groaned and collapsed back onto the pillows.

"Do we have a couch?"

"There is a small table, three chairs and a nightstand on each side of the bed. No couch."

"Wonderful. If you hog the covers I will strangle you with them."

"Sounds fair. Welcome to the family."

…….

Late that night, Sands lay awake in the gigantic bed. He had spent the previous two and a half hours prowling the bar and the hallway while the rest of the inhabitants slept, learning and memorizing every piece of furniture, wall, corner, step, counter, glass and bottle of the establishment. Now he settled down, acclimating himself to the creaks of his new building and the sounds of the other man's breathing.

This had worked out nicely, he thought. It wouldn't have been much longer before he himself would have needed help of some kind, preferably in the form of a partner-in-crime. The single life was not easy for a blind man, especially one with a continuous need to move around. Here, however, he could be secure _and _close to the cartels. He had gotten the help he needed without having to go through the embarrassment of asking for it. All thanks to three mariachis he had made hell for. Well, thanks to _one_ mariachi he had made hell for; the other two didn't know yet, and probably wouldn't be thrilled when they found out.

Next to him, El murmured something and shifted in his sleep. Not the most dignified living arrangements, Sands mused, but tolerable. And, for some fucked up reason, he actually felt safe in the presence of this noble son of Mexico. He didn't know why. He certainly shouldn't have. But he did, and right now he was too damn tired to think about it anymore. He removed his sunglasses – boy had El looked at him funny when he had gotten into bed with them on – placed them on the nightstand, and allowed himself to drift off into his first untroubled sleep in months.

* * *

A/N: Written on the road to a college visit. It was a lot shorter in my head, but as I wrote, it kind of… fleshed itself out. Rather well, I think.

The part after the dots was written on the road to a camping trip that included yet another college visit. I needed some closure. I'm pretty sure I got the idea of him skulking around at night, learning the place, without the others' knowledge, from a Miss Becky fic. I very much like the idea, but, as always, I will not use it if she doesn't want me to.

If you desperately need a translation of the Spanish, tell me and I'll be more than happy to oblige. I tried to make it so that the reader can pretty much get it from the surrounding writing.

As for the noises coming from Lorenzo and Fideo's room… draw your own conclusions.


End file.
